Night Prowler
by MisterRobbins
Summary: AU. Single father and Los Angeles homicide detective Lincoln Loud tracks a violent home-invading serial killer.
1. A Cry in the Night

**Hi, everyone, sorry for the long delay. I had other things going on. A lot of other things. And before you ask, yes, I'm going to continue Truth or Dare...very, very soon.**

 **This is a story I've been working on for a long time. It's an AU where Lincoln is a homicide detective in LA and tracks a violent home invading serial killer. It's a little different from my usual stuff, but I had fun with it. I hope you like it.**

* * *

Lincoln Loud threw back his head and let out a long, low groan. Before him, spread out across the coffee table, the scattered papers of the Mancini file stared mockingly back, statements, crime scene photos, blah, blah, blah.

And all of it meant nothing.

Sighing, Lincoln rubbed his grainy eyes. It was early, barely nine-thirty, but he'd been going over the damn thing since he got home at four.

And he was _still_ no closer to solving it.

Shit.

It happened like this: Ray Mancini, an associate of Tommy "Little Hawk" Ruzito, a suspected capo in the Los Angeles Crime Family, was walking down the street after leaving a nightclub downtown where rappers, actresses, and posers danced to strange electronic music and did designers drugs Lincoln had never heard of. A block out, drunk as a skunk, Mancini stepped into an alley, where someone put three bullets in his stomach. His wallet was missing, so it _could_ have been a robbery, but all of Lincoln's instincts told him it wasn't. What it was was...well, Lincoln didn't know. At first he figured it was a hit. Mancini did something to incur the wrath of the mob and paid with his life. Case closed.

The thing was: No one was talking. Mafia guys are notorious for keeping their mouths shut. Lincoln remembered reading somewhere that one of the guys who got shot during the St. Valentine's Day Massacre told the cops, "No one shot me," even though he had twenty bullet holes in him. Usually witnesses are a huge part of an investigation, but when you run up against the mob, or street gangs, or communities distrustful of the police...fuhgeddaboutit.

A door slammed, and Lincoln jumped.

"Jeez, dad," Lemy said. He was standing by the kitchen island, a can of Coke raised partly to his lips. He was tall, like Lincoln, but thinly built, with a sweep of chestnut brown hair and soft hazel eyes, both of which came from Luna. He was wearing ripped jeans, a black AC/DC band T, and a short-waisted leather jacket. He favored his mother, and sometimes Lincoln couldn't help but feel a twinge of loss when he looked at him. He and Luna were both young when Lemy was born, and neither was ready for a child; the discussed the possibility of getting an abortion but ultimately decided against it. Lincoln thanked God every single day that they did.

"Why are _you_ all dressed up?" Lincoln asked.

Lemy rolled his eyes. "The show?"

For a moment Lincoln had no idea what the boy was talking about, then it hit him.

"Shit."

Lemy played guitar in a rock band with a couple friends of his. They'd been at it three years, playing nights and weekends in the garage (they were pretty good, Lincoln thought, and that was only _half_ bias); tonight was their first real show, at a bar in Santa Monica.

Lincoln had wanted to be there.

Lemy was grinning. "You can't come."

It wasn't a question.

Lincoln opened his mouth to speak, but Lemy cut him off.

"It's okay. Really. I mean, who wants their old man hanging around, anyway?"

It was supposed to be a joke, but it hurt Lincoln. He could see a faint glimmer in Lemy's eyes. To him, it looked like disappointment.

Disappointment was a look he was used to seeing in his son's eyes. Being a homicide detective meant missing out. Little League games. School plays. Birthday parties. In an instant, Lincoln's mind flashed back over all the events he'd missed, all the memories, and his heart clenched. "I'll be there," he always told himself, but he wound up working instead, so lost in the pursuit of justice that hours passed like minutes.

"You're obsessed," Luna used to say. He'd smile and said, "No, I'm dedicated." But now, three years after the cancer took her away, he finally agreed. He _was_ _obsessed._ He worked each case like his life depended on it.

"You take things too personal," Clyde McBride, his partner, told him. Like with Luna, Lincoln disagreed at first, but eventually acquiesced. He _did_ take his cases personal. But why shouldn't he? Why shouldn't he take the rape and murder of innocent people personally?

Why shouldn't he take it seriously when the first girl he ever loved was raped and murdered?

"I'm sorry," Lincoln heard himself saying, slipping into the apology like an old glove; it occurred to him he'd said those two words to Lemy more than he'd said anything else to him.

Lemy smiled. "Really. It's fine. Don't beat yourself up about it." He finished the soda and tossed it into the trash can. He slapped the quartz counter and pointed at Lincoln. "I'll see _you_ later."

Lincoln muttered something as Lemy walked out. When he heard the front door close and lock, he turned back to the coffee table and sighed.

 _I'm a failure,_ he thought. A failure as a father.

Looking at the papers, Lincoln felt a wave of disgust wash over him. You already missed your son growing up. Are you gonna miss everything else, too?

When I finish this case, he thought, I'll make it up to him.

* * *

Lemy Loud lit a cigarette and leaned against the stone mailbox as he waited for his ride. He took a deep drag, held it, and let it out slowly; blue smoke hung in the dry air like nuclear fallout over a black, bombs blasted hellscape. He scanned the houses on the other side of the street, all stucco siding and terra cotta roofs, wilted palms overhanging brown front lawns that crunched when you walked across them. Another summer, another drought/

He pinched the filter between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, pulled it away from his lips with a flourish, and blew another plume.

 _It's okay, Dad, I don't mind,_ he said. _I don't care that you never have time for me. It's totally fine, man, really._

But it _wasn't_ fine. It was the _opposite_ of fine.

Maybe it isn't cool to watch your father's approval...maybe it isn't cool to wanna hang out with him and shit like that, but Lemy honestly didn't give a _fuck_ what was cool. It really hurt that Dad never had time for him, it hurt that every time he went to go see if they could do something together, he got shot down, again, and wound up feeling two inches tall.

It hurt bad.

Taking another drag, he glanced down the street as a pair of headlights appeared, creeping slowly forward. It drew closer, and he recognized Gordon's Trans Am. He flicked the cigarette away as the car pulled up, and went up to the passenger side door, pulling it opening and climbing in. Gordon, black with short dreadlocks, sat behind the wheel, a satisfied little grin on his face. "Hey, man," Gordon said as Lemy slammed the door behind him. "You ready for this?"

"I've _been_ ready," Lemy said.

"Not as long as I have," Lyra said from the back seat. She leaned forward and kissed Lemy on the cheek. Tall with long, dark hair and freckles, she was older than Lemy by six months, a fact that she never let him forget. Sometimes he wondered why he put up with her...then they had sex and he remembered.

Lemy turned his head and their lips brushed; her eyes were big and sparkly in the semi darkness. She was more excited for this than him and Gordon combined. She pecked his mouth and drew away with a laugh when he stuck his tongue out and licked her bottom lip. "None of that, man," she said, "it's bad luck to French before a show."

"Who the hell told you _that?"_ he asked as Gordon pulled away from the curb.

"Common knowledge, dude," she said.

Lemy snickered. Yeah. Common knowledge. Totally.

As the car crept away, Lemy spared one last look at the house, catching a fleeting glimpse of a shadow in one lighted window. It might not be cool to be disappointed that your dad can't come to your show, but Lemy was _really_ disappointed, and if that made him a lame-o, he was a lame-o.

A _giant_ lame-o.

* * *

At 11:58 PM on the evening of June 28, the killer left the freeway and followed Martin Luther King Jr Blvd west toward Leimert Park, passing shopping centers and restaurants flanked by tall, wavering palms and low, bushy tangles of California Live Oak. Though it was nearly midnight, the streets were alive with activity, the night haunted by pimps, pushers, and prostitutes. In front of a twenty-four hour grocery, a group of black men talked and took turns drinking from a bottle. As he passed, the killer thought of opening fire on them and speeding off, but decided against it.

After several blocks, he turned onto S. Western Ave, which ran past Martin Luther King Elementary and Martin Luther King Park. Lot of Martin Luther King. Tells you what kinda neighborhood _this_ is.

Before coming to Exposition Blvd, the killer swung onto W. 38th Street, a short, wide avenue lined with small middle class homes, their yards tiny and fenced in, their pitched terra cotta roofs reaching for the mess of power lines overhead. He parked at the curb behind an old Monte Carlo and killed the engine, leaving the radio on. Motley Crue was singing Looks That Kill.

The killer lit a cigarette and inhaled; the smoke made lazy whorls in the still summer air.

The killer liked Motley Crue. He liked most of the classic metal bands. Even Dokken. Hell, compared with the shit on the radio now, even Bon Jovi was good.

#RobinThicke.

Yeah.

#FuckYou.

The killer liked a lot of things, not just music. He liked reading, for one; at home he had a

library dedicated to serial killers, mass murderers, and mobsters. He also liked attention. Oh, yes. How nice to rise above the masses? To _be_ somebody in a world of vacant-eyed no ones? At one time he thought he might be a musician or a writer, hell, even a politician. He could do it, too. He could make the world love him.

But infamy, the killer decided, is better than fame. Fame fades, but infamy doesn't. Who knows Gretta Garbo? Fatty Arbuckle? No one, that's who. But everyone knows Hitler. People _never_ forget a man like that. And not only did they never forget, they became obsessed. They _loved_ reading about it. It fed something in them. Oh, they smiled and tucked their shirts in, but when they got behind closed doors, they were all just as sick as they said he was.

The only difference is that he was done playing society's game. Like Judas Priest said:

 _If you think I'll sit around as the world goes by_

 _You're thinkin' like a fool 'cause it's a case of do or die._

 _Out there is a fortune waitin' to be had_

 _If you think I'll let it go you're mad_

 _You've got another thing comin'_

Bundy, Dahmer, and Gacy had found _their_ fortunes. Tonight, the killer would find

 _his._ The books, the movies, the TV specials. All of it would be his. He tittered at the thought of what was to come. He especially looked forward to the climax.

Across the street, a battered Chevy pulled into the driveway of a small stucco house, its headlights washing across the garage. Two women tumbled out, a short brunette and a tall blonde. The blonde said something to the driver and laughed. The car then backed into the street, swung left, and honked. As it passed, the killer got a good look at the guy inside: Middle age, bald, glasses.

The girls let themselves into the house, switching on a light as they went, the dark windows suddenly afire. The killer took a drag and watched.

He'd been watching the house for nearly a week, and he knew the rituals of the inhabitants better than he knew his own. There were three of them, all students at the University of Southern California. The blonde and brunette worked at a restaurant waiting tables, the redhead worked for the newspaper, and usually got home around four in the morning. Too bad. She'd miss the fun.

The killer waited nearly an hour. Motley Crue gave way to Metallica, who in turn gave way to Krokus singing "Our Love." Midnite Maniac would have been more appropriate, but he didn't complain.

At 1:00 AM, he reached into the passenger seat. In his lap, the murder kit was heavy and warm, as if it were alive and waiting. From its shadowy depths, he selected a knife, a roll of duct tape, and a heavy flashlight. Ready, he grabbed the ski mask from the glove compartment, and, after a brief inner debate, took the pistol as well.

Ready, the killer got out of the car and crossed the street. At the foot of the flagstone walk, he paused and swept the street with his gaze. A car passed on a cross street, but otherwise, the neighborhood was silent.

The light was still on in the living room.

At the door, the killer knocked.

* * *

Lincoln Loud was hovering on the edge of sleep when the shrill cry of the phone filled the house, startling him. Nighttime phone calls weren't rare...at all...but the damn phone still got him every time.

Switching on the bedside lamp, he grabbed the phone and hit TALK.

"Hello?"

"Lincoln, we got a homicide," Clyde McBride said. Clyde was his partner and had been for nearly ten years.

"Where?"

"Two-five-two, West 38th."

"I'll be there."

Lincoln hung up the phone and got out of bed, his mind clear and his body tense. He dressed mechanically, pulling on pants, a white shirt, and a brown blazer. The house was dark and quiet. He stuck his head into Lemy's room. The boy was face down on the bed, snoring. Probably got shitfaced after the show.

Lincoln wished he'd gone.

He wished he'd done a _lot_ of things, though; what's one more?

Outside, the night was warm and quiet, the air redolent of flowers. Next door, a mass of roses, marigolds, petunias, tulips, and a thousand other flowers crowded old Mrs. Johnson's tiny Cape Cod.

West 38th was eighteen blocks south, just west southwest of the campus of the University of Southern California. Not the best neighborhood in the city, but not the worst, either.

As he navigated the nighttime surface streets, Lincoln wondered what he'd find as he always did before walking into a homicide. He liked to think he was used to death and depravity, but every cop had that one little thing that got through their armor no matter how long they'd been on the force or how tough they were. For Lincoln, it was kids. You know how many homicides in the City of Angels involved children? Too goddamn many. Once, he walked into a house where a guy hacked his twin daughters up with an ax. Two little blonde girls, six, one in a pink dress and the other in overalls. When Lincoln walked into their bedroom and found them strewn across the floor in pieces, he turned right back around and walked out. Sometimes he still had nightmares about it.

And on those nights, he always got up and checked on his son.

Ten minutes later, he pulled onto W. 38th. Down the block, several black-and-whites were parked at the curb, their rack lights dancing blue and red. He pulled in behind one of them and cut the engine. Across the way, uniforms moved in and out of a small bungalow. He saw Clyde McBride by the door, talking to a cop. Tall and thin, Clyde was dressed in a light brown windbreaker and a pair of jeans, his badge clipped carefully to his belt, opposite his piece.

Lincoln got out and walked across the street. When Clyde saw him, he lifted a hand.

"What're we lookin at?" Lincoln asked.

"It's a bad one," Clyde said, gesturing into the house. "Two victims, female, stab wounds. Their roommate walked in on it. The guy came after her but she got away."

A cop brushed past Lincoln, jogged out to his cruiser, and opened the door.

"Let's have a look."

The front door opened onto a tiny hall. On the right was a living room, on the left a dining room. The vics were in the living room; when Lincoln saw them, his stomach turned.

"Jesus," he muttered.

One of the women, a blonde, was lying in a corner on her side. The other, a brunette, was in the middle of the room, her dead eyes gazing skyward. Her dress was hiked up around her hips, and her blood soaked panties had been stuffed into her mouth. Her stomach cavity was open, and from where he stood, Lincoln could see her entrails, pink and rope like.

A shiver raced down his spine and a rush of stomach acid threatened to rise in his throat.

"Told you," Clyde said.

Lincoln glanced at him, and furrowed his brows when he noticed a pockmark in the wall. "What's that?" he asked and nodded to it.

Clyde turned. "Oh, yeah, the perp took a shot at our witness."

"Where is she?"

Outside, the survivor, Kelly Frank, a thin woman with white skin and dark red hair, was huddled in the back of a cruiser, a wool blanket draped over her shoulders despite the warmth of the night.

"Kelly?" Lincoln asked, approaching. She looked up. "I'm Detective Loud. Can I ask you a few questions?"

She gazed up at him, dazed, and then nodded. "Yeah. Sure."

"Tell me what happened."

"I-I got off work early. I came in, and I saw him..."

She trailed off, her throat visibly contracting.

"It's okay if..."

She shook her head. "He was raping Linda."

"She's the brunette?"

Kelly nodded. "He heard me. For a minute I was so scared I couldn't move. Then I saw the gun in his hand and...I just ran."

"Did you get a good look at his face?"

She shook her head. "No. He was wearing a mask."

"Like a ski mask?"

Kelly nodded.

"Where do you work?"

"The newspaper plant on Chestnut."

"You deliver papers?"

She nodded.

Lincoln removed a notepad from his coat pocket and jotted down what he could. "What kind of build did this guy have? Tall, short, skinny...?"

Kelly considered the question. "I don't know. Skinny, I guess. And kinda tall."

Lincoln nodded. "Could you tell if he was white or black?"

Kelly shook her head. "I think he was white."

Lincoln nodded again. "Do you know anyone who would want to hurt your friends? Did they have any stalkers, boyfriends...enemies?"

Kelly shook her head. "Maggie has a boyfriend, but he's a football player, a big guy. Linda didn't. She's the teacher's pet type. Always studying."

"Who's Maggie's boyfriend?"

"His name's Chuck."

"Do you know where he lives?"

"On campus, I think. I have his number."

"Can I have it?"

Kelly gave it to him, and he jotted it down. "I'm going to need you to come down to the station at some point. Where can I reach you?"

She gave him her own number.

"Do you have a place to stay tonight?"

She nodded. "My boyfriend's coming."

Lincoln met Clyde at the front door. "She said the guy was wearing a ski mask, but she thought he was white. Skinny, tall."

" _That_ narrows the field," Clyde said.

"It's what we have," Lincoln said. "I want that slug out of the wall as soon as possible. Have a rape kit done on the brunette. Kelly says she caught the guy on top of her."

Clyde nodded.

Lincoln watched him go back into the house. It was going to be a _long_ day.

* * *

Chuck Spenser, short, squat, and sporting a dirty blonde crew cut, already knew his girlfriend was dead: Even in a city like L.A., news travels fast.

Lincoln was reluctant to talk to the boy so soon. It was barely five in the morning, and already he was tired, but he knew he wouldn't be able to rest until it was done and out of the way.

So, at five-thirty, Lincoln drove over to the University of Southern California campus and called on Chuck Spenser.

Now, nearly an hour later, they were sitting in the living room of the frat house, Chuck and his buddies on the couch, and Lincoln in an overstuffed armchair.

"We swear he was with us, Detective," one of them said. "You could check with the club. I'm pretty sure they have video cameras."

"What time did you leave the club?"

Chuck considered. "Twoish."

Lincoln nodded and wrote that down. It was called The Cherry Lounge. A strip club off the beaten path in Skid Row. Lincoln knew the place. A lot of bad guys hung out there.

Satisfied, he left just as the feeble rays of the morning sun were beginning to cascade over the campus. The tall, ancient buildings lining the commons reminded Lincoln of prison movies he'd seen as a kid. Luna took classes here for a while; that was before he went to the academy to be a beat cop. Like Lemy, she loved music, and wound up teaching it at an elementary school.

Melancholy sadness rose in his chest as he reached the car. He'd been thinking of Luna a lot lately; he missed her so bad sometimes he ached, and when he was in bed alone at night, he occasionally hugged her pillow to his chest, her lingering scent comforting him.

Standing by the front end, he whipped out his cell and called Clyde. He answered on the second ring.

"Yeah?"

"Get anything?" Lincoln asked.

"Maybe," Clyde said. He was still back on 38th, going door-to-door and asking if anyone had seen or heard anything. A few people heard the gunshot, he said, but the only person to actually see the guy jumping into his car and speeding away didn't get the license plate number, but they _were_ fairly certain that it was an Oldsmobile.

"He didn't see the color?"

Clyde clucked his tongue. "He said it was either light blue or black."

" _Light_ blue or black?"

"Yep."

"There's a big difference between light blue and dark blue and black."

"I know."

Lincoln sighed. "Alright. See you in twenty."

* * *

The bullpen was abuzz with activity: Phones ringing, guys talking, people going back and forth. Jamison, a fifteen year veteran, went into the captain's office, and Lincoln wondered if it had to do with that black guy he shot in Crenshaw the other night. The media was already trying to turn it into a _cause célèbre_. "RACIST COP KILLS POOR INNOCENT BLACK MAN." Lincoln didn't know particulars, but the guy had a rap sheet longer than a baby's arm, including assaulting a police officer and attempted murder.

He sure wasn't Trayvon Martin, in other words

At the desk they shared, Clyde dropped into his chair.

"Anything from the lab?"

It was half past seven. Not even twelve hours had passed since the killings. Lincoln knew they wouldn't have the lab results before the end of the day at the earliest, but he could hope.

Clyde shook his head. "No fingerprints, either."

That was odd. Their guy seemed thorough, but he was disturbed in the middle of the killing and had to make a quick exit. He should have left _something_ behind.

"Gloves," Lincoln said.

"Maybe," Clyde replied.

"I wanna check to see if any of the people we talked to owns an Olds. Bring up the DMV registry."

Clyde sighed, leaned over his computer, and started punching buttons. A half an hour later, he sat back, defeated. "Nope."

"Try the sex offender registry."

Of all the sex offenders in the Los Angeles area, only one owned an Oldsmobile, and he died the previous week.

Clyde drew up the DMV registry again, and got a list of everyone in L.A. who owned an Oldsmobile.

"That's a lot of names," Lincoln pointed out.

Clyde matched them against known felons.

There were three hits.

Jonnie Kuza, a former Triad who did ten years in jail for manslaughter, owned an Olds, as did Tommy Dem and Walt Parker, both of whom did time in prisons in other states, Dem for forgery and Parker for assault.

"Walt Parker?" Lincoln asked.

Clyde nodded. "Might as well."

Parker lived in an apartment building in Westmont overlooking the freeway. When he answered the door, a short, balding guy with three days' growth on his face, his eyes immediately darted to the badge on Clyde's belt.

"What do you want?" he asked contemptuously.

"I'm Detective McBride and this is my partner Detective Loud. Can we come in?"

"Whatever."

The place was cramped and dingy; Lincoln's shoes stuck on the linoleum floor in the kitchen, and he was sure he saw roaches scurrying into the shadows.

As succinctly as possible, Lincoln told Parker why they were there, and as the realization dawned on him, his face went white.

"You don't think _I_ did it, do you?"

"That's why we're here."

"I was here all night. You can ask my daughter. She was here too."

"Where is she now?" Clyde asked.

"Work."

Parker gave them the number to his daughter's place of employment, and she backed him up, just as Lincoln thought she would. Parker was short and pudgy. The man Kelly saw last night was tall and thin.

Outside, Clyde said, "I don't know about you, but I'm bushed. How about we pick this up later?"

Lincoln checked his watch. It was just after ten. He felt as though he'd been up for two days, which, in fact, he had. Now that Clyde mentioned it, the weight of his sleeplessness was heavy upon him.

"Yeah," Lincoln relented, "alright."

After dropping Clyde off at the station so he could pick up his own car, Lincoln drove home, avoiding the freeway. The morning was bright and hot, and by the time he reached his driveway, he was so tired he didn't think he'd make it into the house.

Inside, it was cool and dark; he collapsed onto his bed and fell straight to sleep. His last waking thought, as it usually was, was of Luna.

 _I miss you._


	2. The Shadow

**Salutations, fair readers! It is with the utmost regret that I inform you I made a slight boo boo in not mentioning that none of the Loud House characters are related to each other outside of Lincoln and Lemy. In this tale, Lyra is not Lemy's sister at all, simply his girlfriend, and Luna was merely Lincoln's wife rather than a blood relation. Please accept my sincerest apologies.**

* * *

In the heat of the day, the killer retreated into his lair, the curtains drawn heavily against the pressing California sun. The TV was on, but he wasn't watching it; naked save for a Nazi armband, he paged lazily through a cracked leather-bound book. PRECIOUS MEMORIES said the gold script across the front, and the killer smiled knowingly to himself every time he read it.

Inside, the pages were stiff black cardboard. Carefully taped to each one was a newspaper clipping. The earliest was dated December 15, 2013. MAN ATTACKED IN HOME blared the headline. Below that: **Studio City Man Beaten With Tire Iron**. The next was dated December 28, 2013: MAN SHOT, WOUNDED IN ENCINO. The most recent was dated June 1, 2018. WOMAN BEATEN, RAPED.

As the killer flipped through book, his mind drfied. It started, more or less, when he was fifteen. At night, when the world slept, he'd walk the neighborhood, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. Whenever he passed a house with blue TV glow in the window, he'd stop and wonder what it would be like to kick the door in. How would the owner react? What would they do? What would _he_ do?

The subdivision he lived in at the time covered twenty acres north of the city, an endless nervous system of streets, roads, and avenues lined with expensive houses and fat, ancient trees. Sometimes he imagined going into the houses and killing people, clearing entire blocks before sunrise. He could do it, he was certain, as long as none of the houses had security systems, which he knew they did.

When he was seventeen, he finally worked up the courage to break into one. It was a tall, three story adobe structure with a red terra cotta roof and palm trees lining a flagstone walk. The guy who owned it travelled a lot and was never home.

Deep in the dark night, the killer broke the lock on a back window and climbed in. He wandered the halls and sitting rooms, touching things, moving things, relishing the secret POWER he now wielded. In the master bedroom, he found a Colt Woodsman in a nightstand drawer, and tucked it into the waistband of his jeans. This belongs to me now, he thought, and there's nothing you can do to stop me.

By the time he got home an hour later, he was shaky and weak, and as he drifted to sleep at dawn, he realized he wanted to do it again.

Two weeks later, he did, picking a house at random on one of his nightly walks and watching it for three days before jimmying open a sliding glass door and slipping in like a shadow. He went from room to room, rummaging through drawers, dressers, cupboards, and cabinets, touching everything, eating food from the fridge, and leaving a turd in one of the toilets. He found photo albums on a bookshelf in a living room, and sat down in the middle of the floor to read them. Vacation photos. Christmas. Birthdays. A black family. Two boys and a girl, mother, father.

He took the photo albums with him when he left. They were still in his closet, and he flipped through them from time to time, studying the smiling faces and trying to feel what they felt. He smiled at himself in the mirror in the bathroom, and while it was convincing, it wasn't real. It felt cold and alien on his face.

It took him awhile to realize that that's how it was _supposed_ to feel. Joy, love, happiness...it was all fake. The only joy he ever felt was when he was breaking into houses, and after a while even _that_ started to lose its luster.

When he was nineteen, he figured out a way to make it fun again.

He would break into a house with someone _in it._

The first was a one story Spanish style house at the end of a dead end street. An old woman lived there alone. Her name was Mrs. Johnson and she was a teacher at one point. The killer cased the place for two weeks, building himself up only to chicken out at the last second on several occasions. Finally, on a Sunday night, he removed a screen from a window and climbed in, his heart slamming and adrenaline coursing through his veins. He crept through the darkened rooms with a smile on his face, feeling alive for the first time in months. He fingered drapes and couch pillows, rubbed his crotch against a doorframe, and ate an apple from a basket on the counter, leaving the core on the dining room table as a calling card. Apples...forbidden knowledge, it was in the Bible.

Before he left, he went into the old woman's room and stood over her sleeping form, his hard eyes boring into her and his lips arranged in a hateful sneer. He could kill her...break her neck like snapping a toothpick...her life rested in his hands, and the godlike feeling made him erect.

On his way out, he stole a handful of costume jewelry...not because he wanted it, but because he wanted to remember the rush of power he felt being in her room...at night...undetected.

He did it again three nights later, breaking into a house through the back door. Ancient linoleum cracked underfoot, shadows fled across walls, and in one of the rooms off the main hall, a TV played. His heart slammed as he went to the closed door, his eyes going to the soft electric glow filling the crack underneath. A TV being on meant that someone might be awake...he could be caught...forced to flight...or fight. His nerve endings crackled with energy, and as he pressed his ear to the wood, his penis began to harden.

 _Seinfeld_.

They were watching _Seinfeld._ The episode where Jerry's girlfriend has 'man hands.' The killer flashed a wide, toothy grin. He liked that one. Maybe he should go in...and watch it with his new friend. If he or she was awake, they could laugh along with the audience, and it he or she wasn't, The Killer could sit on the edge of the bed and risk them seeing him.

That sounded _fun._

Instead of doing that, though, he went into the kitchen and made himself a sandwich; he leaned against the counter as he ate, mentally daring one of the occupants to come out and challenge him. None of them did, however, and before he left, he took their DVD player away. Two blocks south, he smashed it against the street and kicked the shattered pieces along the pavement, hoping someone ran it over come morning and wound up with a flat.

Sneaking into occupied houses became a twice weekly ritual for him, then a _thrice_ weekly ritual as the warm glow it provided began to diminish. When he was entirely bored of it, he started to carry the Colt...and a tire iron. He itched to use it, prayed that someone would catch him, but no one did. He grew bolder. One night he went into someone's bedroom and nudged them awake, a man with a bald pate and a pug nose. He muttered and snorted.

Like a pig.

Disgust came over the killer, and before he knew what he was doing, he was raising the iron above his head...then bringing it down. The end hit the man's head with a hollow thunk, and he jerked as though he'd been shot. The Killer did this twice more before leaving him for dead. He read in the next day's paper that he survived.

Pity.

He went farther afield the next time, driving to Encino. Inside a lower middle class bungalow with peeling paint, he was caught: A man walked out a bedroom while The Killer was looking through a living room bookshelf.

"Hey!"

Instinct took over; he whipped out the Colt, aimed, and pulled the trigger, the round catching the man in the shoulder and spinning him around. Panicking, he ran, and for a long time he was hesitant to do it again, but the call was too great.

No one knew it, but this city belonged to _him_. He walked the streets at night like a demon, wielding such unimaginable power that mortal men would quake before him if only they _imagined_.

Presently, the 12 o'clock news came on, and the killer looked up. When the anchor started talking about what he'd done the night before, his stomach dropped. Double murder they said, violent home invasion, they said.

He closed the book and set it aside. Moving deliberately, cat-like, he got closer to the TV, until he was sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning forward, his hands clasped on his knees.

Wow.

He was somebody now.

He grinned like a shark.

Just wait until tonight, Mr. Anchorman...just wait until tonight.

* * *

Lincoln Loud came slowly and groggily awake in a spill of weak afternoon light. He was lying on his stomach, the side of his face buried in the pillow and his knees digging into the mattress, elevating him slightly.

Blinking the sleep from his eyes, he stared at the face of the digital alarm clock until the numbers made sense: 5;45pm.

Sighing, he rolled over, kicked his legs over the edge, and sat up, his head spinning. He raked one hand through his white hair and rubbed the heel of his palm against his aching temple.

It happened again.

The dream.

Hot tears welled in his eyes, and he blinked them back; he saw Luna on the backs of his eyelids, her face sunken, skin wan, eyes muddled gray with sickness and coming death. As always, he was standing by her bedside, her hand in his, just as he had in real life. Only in the dream, she wasn't dying...she had already died but came back and was dying again. Her touch was cold, dry, that of a corpse, and when she spoke the words _I love you, Lincoln,_ her voice was a hissing rattle.

He never dreamed of her any other way. They had nearly twenty-five happy years together, so many precious memories, so many laughs and tender kisses...and he only dreamed of her sick and dying.

With a sigh, he got to his feet and shuffled into the master bath on socked feet, snapping on the light and peeling out of his wife-beater. Next came his pants, underwear, and socks. Naked now, he turned the water as hot as he could stand and got into the shower, where he let the water cascade over his tense, tired body. Not for the first time, he considered retirement. He was just over ten years from his pension - something that every homicide detective works toward - but he didn't know if it was worth it anymore. The stress, the hours, the not being there for his son…

He let that thought trail off and sought refuge in the only thing he had to hide himself behind: Work. The ballistics should be back by now, and maybe, just maybe, they'd have gotten lucky with a witness.

When he was done, he got out, toweled off, and then went into his room. He took underwear and a pair of gray pants from the dresser and pulled them on, then a white button up. He shrugged into his shoulder rig, clipped his badge to his belt, and slipped into a gray sports coat. After putting on socks and shoes, he went into the kitchen and found Lemy leaning against the counter while waiting for something in the microwave, his arms crossed over his chest and his head bowed. He looked up when Lincoln entered and smirked. "Look who's up."

"Barely," Lincoln said, going to the fridge. He opened it and grabbed a can of Coke. "It was an _early_ day."

"I figured," Lemy said, "you were gone when I got up. Someone do somebody wrong?"

Lincoln chuckled and took a long, grateful drink, the liquid cold against his dry throat. "Three somebodies," he said.

Lemy's brow furrowed in confusion. "Three people were done wrong or three people did somebody wrong?"

"Triple murder."

Lemy winced.

Before Luna died, Lincoln discussed his cases with _her_. He had to - you can't keep all of that bottled up inside of you...if you try, it'll eventually come out and you'll wind up sticking your service weapon in your mouth. Now that she was gone, it was Lemy; the poor kid bore the brunt of L.A.'s worst on a daily basis, but he did it without complaint, and even gave thoughtful advice where he could just as his mother had done.

Lincoln took another drink. "Three women." His mind flashed back to the crime scene, and a rush of hatred went through him. "One of them raped."

"Jesus," Lemy breathed, then shuddered. "Man, I don't know how you do it. I couldn't take dealing with that shit."

"Someone has to," Lincoln said. He finished his soda and dropped the empty into the trash. "I'll try to be home early tonight," he said and clapped Lemy's arm.

Lemy smiled. "Alright."

As Lincoln drove to the station, he tried to pinpoint just exactly it was he saw in his son's eyes as he spoke that final word. He was walking into the bullpen when it hit him: Doubt. _I'm not holding my breath,_ that look said. _Been there, done that._

He started to feel sorry for himself, but didn't have the time: Clyde was already at the desk, and when he saw Lincoln coming, he waved him over.

"Mr. Sleepy-Head," Clyde said as he walked up, "you missed a lot."

Lincoln's heart jagged. "What?" he asked.

Clyde snatched a paper off the desk and held in up so he could read it. "Ballistics are back. The bullet we dug out of the wall? Came from the same gun used to kill Ray Mancini."

Lincoln's brow shot up. "The same gun?"

"Yessir," Clyde said. "Whoever did him did the girls on 38th." He picked an envelope up from the desk and handed it to Lincoln. "Plus...you got mail, buddy."

Lincoln took is hesitantly, looking from Clyde to it with suspicion. The writing on the front was blocky and red. DETECTIVE LINCOLN LOUD it said. The return address was: 123 FAKE STREET, HELLTOWN USA, 6666666.

He looked at Clyde, and the same thought passed between them: This can't be good.

Swallowing, Lincoln ripped open the envelope and pulled out a single sheet of paper. As he read it, his heart dropped.

"What?" Clyde asked.

Lincoln read it aloud.

 _Dear Lincoln Loud,_

 _I heard it through the grapevine that you're dealing with what I did last night. Same old song and dance, my friend. But you know what? Hell ain't a bad place to be, not when you've gone shootin like I have. Speaking of shootin, I shot that Mancini guy. Put three in his tummy. I didn't like it though. Guns are too impersonal. I like to get up close. Like I did last night._

 _You could say it was love at first feel. I plan to killing more. Many more. It ain't no fun waitin round to be a millionaire, and I'm done waiting for the powerage. By the end of the summer, the whole world will know my name._

 _Come along for the ride? You'll be famous too. We'll ALL be famous._

 _See you on the other side. It's time to ride on._

 _PS If you want to find out who I am, do your homework._

 _Love,_

 _The Night Prowler._

Though Clyde was fairly dark, his face was white now.

Lincoln scanned the note again, and shook his head. This was bad. _Real_ bad.

They were dealing with a serial killer.

* * *

After meeting with Captain Reynolds, Lincoln called Lemy. He answered on the third ring.

"Hello?"

"Hey, it's me," Lincoln said. He was standing in the hallway. Cops were moving around him, some speaking, but many silent.

"Hey, dad, what's up?"

Lincoln licked his lips. "Look, something came up. Something big. I won't be home for a while."

When a case blew up the way this one had, Lincoln slept in one of the conference rooms off the hall he was standing in. He didn't know if he'd do that tonight (he wasn't planning on it), but he knew like hell he wouldn't be home before midnight at the earliest.

He felt a twinge of shame when he told his son this.

"Alright," Lemy said. "I'm out with Gordon and Lyra anyway. I probably won't be home until midnight either."

Gordon was the lead singer of Lemy's band. Lyra was Lemy's girlfriend. Though she wasn't officially their manager, she knew people (thanks to her rich daddy); in fact, it was her who booked last night's show.

"Alright. I'll call you later."

"Okay," Lemy said.

"I love you," Lincoln said, and he meant it.

"I love you too, dad."

* * *

The killer drove aimlessly north on the freeway as afternoon gave way to evening, lost in the constant flow of Los Angeles traffic.

From Downtown, he headed west, through Beverly Hills, with its manicured gardens and fashionable shops. He watched the pretty girls walking along the sidewalk, their skirts short and their sunglasses big, and briefly considered kidnapping one of them. If he was lucky he'd get the daughter of a famous actor. _That'd Make_ the world sit up and take notice.

The only thing that stopped him was the realization that the law would come down on him _hard_. You take a black prostitute and no one cares, but you take a Kardashian and they'll send the fucking military after you.

Shaking his head, he drove south toward Santa Monica. Purple dusk lay over the city now, and by the time he reached Santa Monica Blvd, stars twinkled in the sky.

For a long time, he sat in a parking lot overlooking the Pacific, smoking and listening to the radio. The surf had been gnarly that day, bro, and a group of surfers sat around a bonfire laughing and drinking beer, enjoying the night. The killer remembered a scene from _The Lost Boys_ where a similar group of beer drinkers fell victim to a bunch of rabid vampires, and smiled. He briefly considered getting out of the car, walking over, and blasting all of them, but thought better of it. Herb Mullin had done something similar in 1973, blasting a bunch of boys on a camping trip, but he did that in the mountains north of San Fran, not in the middle of a fucking city. Someone would see him, the killer realized, and he'd be caught.

With a sad sigh, then, he put the car in drive and drove east, eventually joining the southward flow of traffic on the San Diego Freeway. At Culver City, he got off and parked across from a Shell station at the foot of the off-ramp. As he waited, he scanned the radio news. Earlier he heard something about the two bitches he killed, but that was it. Nothing since. Nothing about them. Nothing about the letter. Nothing at all.

Rage swept through him. He did _not_ like to be ignored. God, what do you have to do in this day and age, blow up a daycare center?

Guess he'd have to make tonight's outing _extra_ gruesome.

At midnight, the killer drove further away from the highway. At a cul-de-sac lined with two story homes, he parked under a streetlight and killed the engine. On Sirius XM Hair Nation, Accept was blistering through Balls to the Wall. The killer tapped the wheel to the beat as he surveyed the houses around him. He hadn't staked these out. But that was okay. The not knowing was half the fun.

Finally, he decided on the only one story house on the block, a withered little thing nearly hidden between two of its larger neighbors. He took his kill kit from the passenger side footwell and took out the mask, the knife, a length of rope, a screwdriver, and the flashlight. The pistol was already in his pocket.

At 1:58 AM, he got out of the car and walked across the street. A narrow alleyway ran between the little house and its western neighbor: A green garden hose lay coiled in the dust, next to a battered red Radio Flyer wagon. The backyard was full of shadows. Standing here, the neighbors on either side could see him if they were awake.

Trembling with excitement, he tried the back door. It was locked, but he had the screwdriver.

After jimmying the door open, he slipped into the kitchen and closed the door behind him. The house was dark and silent, save for the distant sound of snoring.

Moving as silently as possible, the killer searched the house, but save for the snoring fucks, it was empty.

Perfect.

The master bedroom door was slightly ajar. He eased it open and slipped in. Two forms lay under the covers. The killer crept to the larger one and squinted down. A man. Chubby. Late thirties. Stupid goatee. Sudden hatred gripped the killer's heart, and he raised the flashlight over his head.

Sensing something, the man stirred, and his eyes fluttered open.

The killer brought the flashlight down square on the man's face. He gasped and jerked. The killer struck him again, harder this time, bringing the flashlight down with such force that the man's nose broke in a burst of blood.

On the other side of the bed, the woman sat up. "Wha...?" she started, then, seeing him, screamed and tumbled out of bed. Bitch. The killer scrambled across the mattress (and over the man), grabbing a handful of her hair before she could flee. She cried out, but he clamped a hand over her mouth and dragged her back, over her husband's trembling body. On the floor, over her, the killer raised his fist and smashed her in the face, once, twice, three times. He was panting now. Losing control. "You fuck," he growled, grabbing her by the throat and squeezing. "You fucker!" She thrashed and tried to scream, but could only gurgle deep in her throat.

"Bitch. Bitch, bitch," the killer chanted, his fingernails digging deep into the soft flesh of her throat.

He eyes rolled back into her head and she went limp.

Panting even harder now, the killer got to his feet and kicked her in the leg. Behind him, the husband moaned.

The killer had almost forgotten him.

When he turned, the man was starting to stir.

The flashlight was on the floor, where he'd dropped it. He grabbed it and hit the son of a bitch again, and again. When he was as limp as his wife, the killer rolled him onto his stomach and straddled his back. He slipped the flashlight lengthwise across his throat and pulled back with both hands. Get along, little doggy!

When he was sure the fat fuck was dead, he got up and went back to the woman. She was unconscious but alive, blood trickling from her nose and her busted lips. Using the knife, he cut her thin nightgown off and threw it aside. She was a beefy woman; her nipples were large and pink, and her rank passage was hidden by a tangle of dark, curly hair.

Panting, he killer fumbled at his belt. When he was free, he thrust deep into her. Her eyes opened, and she tried to scream, but he had the knife, and cut her throat before she could.

He fucked her as she died. The moment her spirit left her, he came, shooting hot ribbons of semen deep into her belly.

For a while, he simply lay on the floor next to her, breathing deeply of the scent of blood and sex. After nearly a half an hour, he got up and went into the bathroom abutting the room. His hands were bloody, and splatters marred his face and hair. He stripped, climbed into the shower, and let the hot water sluice over his body. When he was done, he got out, dressed, and smashed the mirror on the way out.

In the bedroom, he did a quick search and found a jewelry box on the dresser. He took a tangle of necklaces out and stuffed them into his pocket.

Before leaving, he grabbed the flashlight and the knife. He tried to turn the flashlight on, but it was dead.

In the kitchen, he stopped at the fridge. Inside, he found a Coca-Cola. He grabbed it, popped it open, and drank deeply, savoring the sweet, cold liquid.

When he was done, he crumpled the can and tossed it over his shoulder.

At the back door, he stopped. Oops. Almost forgot something.

In the bedroom, he removed a red marker from his pocket and wrote a message on the far wall, so that whoever entered couldn't help but see it.

Then he left, disappearing into the night like a bad dream.


	3. Rising Power

On the bright morning of June 29, after a sleepless night, Lincoln Loud parked across from the house on End Street and killed the engine. Several squad cars stood at the curb, and about a dozen cops were moving this way and that. Yellow crime scene tape fluttered in the furnace-blast breeze.

"I don't even wanna go in there," Clyde said.

"Neither do I," Lincoln said, and got out.

Sargent Winjin Liu, a short Chinese man, nodded as they approached. "It's a slaughterhouse in there," he warned.

The house was tastefully appointed, knick-knacks and pictures peppering the living room. Though lower-class, the home was neat and tidy, which is why the Coke can on the kitchen floor struck Lincoln as weird.

He pointed it out.

Liu nodded. "We got it."

When Lincoln stepped into the master bedroom, his stomach turned, and he felt his knees going weak.

The first thing he noticed was the writing on the wall directly across from the door. In red: JULY 27 1979; IF YOU WANT BLOOD; and COURTESY OF THE NIGHT PROWLER, LTD.

The next were the vics. The woman lay on the floor, nude, her legs spread wide open. The man was in bed, lying on his stomach. From here, Lincoln could see that his head had been caved open; blood, bits of skull, and chunks of brain matter were splashed across the bed, the nightstand, and the blinds covering the window next flanking the bed.

"Jesus Christ," Lincoln muttered.

Liu nodded. "Whoever did this is one sick puppy."

Lincoln forced himself farther into the room. The woman's throat was cut; clots of dark blood splattered her doughy flesh.

"We gotta stop him," Lincoln muttered, speaking before he even knew he intended to. "We gotta stop him."

By the time they arrived back at the station, the news had broken. Four people dead in two days, brutally murdered in their own homes after midnight. In his sun washed office, Captain Reynolds, a tall, lanky man, sighed and threw his head back. "I've been getting calls all morning," he said. "TV, newspapers. Goddamn media'll turn this guy into Hitler by the end of the day. Have the city in a panic."

And with fear came _pressure_. Lincoln knew that well enough. When a serial killer was running around hacking people up, everyone wanted him caught, and if the police didn't pull an instantaneous capture out of their asses, people would be mad. The mayor would be on their case, because if people got mad and stayed mad, her ass was out of a job. The commissioner would be mad. The people of L.A. It was like fighting a two front war.

"We'll do what we can," Lincoln said, "but it's not going to happen overnight."

The Captain nodded. "I know," he said. "Tell that to everyone else."

They had more this time around than they did yesterday. A partial print on the back door; a boot print along the side of the house. Not much, but it was something.

"What about the things he wrote on the wall? That mean anything to you two?"

Lincoln and Clyde both shook their heads.

"I want you search that date against every known felon in the city," Reynolds said. "Maybe it's a birth day, an arrest date."

Lincoln nodded.

"I'm holding a press conference at three this afternoon," Reynolds said. "I'd like to have some information by then. I don't expect it, but it would be nice."

An hour later, while searching for the meaning of July 27, 1979, Lincoln was startled by Clyde.

"We got a lead," he said.

"What's that?"

"Guy at a Shell station by the freeway a mile from the crime scene said he saw a strange car parked across the street. There two and a half hours last night."

"What kind of car?" Lincoln asked, his heart swelling.

"Light blue Oldsmobile Cutlass."

They arrived at the station less than an hour later; the sun lay across the city like a bar of fire, and the humid breeze blowing in from the sea did little to alleviate the heat. Smog hung overhead, and seeing the buildings downtown through the haze, Lincoln could almost believe that he was in a horror movie.

The guy who spotted the Oldsmobile was a mechanic at the auto shop attached to the gas station, a short, fat man with curly black hair and glasses. He was waiting outside when they arrived, his arms folded over his ample bosom. He was wearing a pair of light gray overalls stained black with grease, motor oil, and a thousand other, less namable things.

When Lincoln shook his hand, it was warm and slimy, and he had to fight the urge to wipe it on his pants leg.

His name was Charlie Ward. He'd been working here since 2005 and knew the area like the back of his hand.

"As you can see, it's mainly businesses."

The little slice of Culver City, cast in the shadow of the raised San Diego Freeway, was crammed with auto shops, factories, and garages. The buildings here were faded brick, the walls and metal roll-top doors splashed with graffiti.

"Things shut down early, and you don't have very many people hanging around. About ten, eleven last night, I noticed this car parked at the curb across the street. I could see somebody sitting in it, and he never moved. I mean, he never got out or anything. I thought maybe he was waiting for somebody, but after a while, I thought maybe he was bad news. You know? I was about to call the cops when he started the car and drove off."

"Which way was he going?" Lincoln asked.

"That way," Ward replied, gesturing vaguely east.

Toward the crime scene?

"You didn't happen to catch the plate number, did you?" Clyde asked.

Ward shook his head. "Nah, I'm sorry."

"Did you get a good look at the guy?"

Ward shrugged one shoulder. "I saw him as he drove off. The streetlight sorta fell on him and I kinda saw him."

"White? Black?" Clyde asked.

"White," Ward said. "He was definitely white, or maybe light-skinned Hispanic."

"Did you see any features?" Lincoln asked.

Ward shook his head. "He had hair. Eyes. I think his hair was either brown or pale red, but I can't really say."

Lincoln jotted down what he could and snapped his notebook closed. "Thank you, Mr.

Ward. You've been a big help."

"No problem," Ward said. "I hope you catch the guy. I heard he cut someone's head off and punted into traffic. Sick motherfucker."

The legends were already beginning.

Back in the car, Lincoln said, "If we could only get the plate numbers."

Clyde nodded. "But we _know_ what he drives."

"We already knew. Now it's just confirmed."

Clyde shrugged. "Better than nothing."

The killer spent the better part of the day holed up in his lair, stroking the Woodsman and letting his mind wander back over the previous night, the power and dominance that surged through him as he stood over the bodies of his victims. After leaving, he aimlessly drove the back streets of Los Angeles, heaped with garbage, grime, and human refuse. L.A. was two cities in one, he thought. All glitz and glam in Hollywood and Beverly Hills, and stark urban decay in Compton, Watts, and Skid Row. Very few people actually saw the dark underbelly. And if they did, it was too late: You can check out anytime you like, padre, but you can _never_ leave.

Still keyed up from the kill, he briefly considered gunning down a few hobos, but settled on buying a prostitute, a girl named Maria he'd fucked in the past.

Finally, as dawn crested, he drove north toward home, getting off the freeway just as the feeble light of day began its inexorable march across the city. After three hours' sleep, he woke and spent the morning scanning the news. Presently, he was waiting for the press conference to begin. His official coming out party.

When it started, he sat aside the Woodsman (which he'd been holding absent-mindedly) and moved closer to the TV.

Lincoln wasn't around for the press conference, but he and Clyde saw it on the TV mounted to the wall above the bar at Louie's on Palms Blvd. Everyone in the place craned their neck when it came on, and someone at the bar implored the bartender to turn it up.

The Captain, dressed in full uniform, came to the podium and nodded politely to the reporters. Lincoln didn't hear exactly what he said, but he got the gist: A serial killer was loose in the city, and so far he'd been linked to five murders. He was considered armed and dangerous. Police were working around the clock to find him.

"I will also be appointing a task force..."

"Hope we're on it," Clyde said, absently shoving a fry into his mouth. Lincoln's own food sat largely untouched before him.

"So do I," he said.

Two hours later, Captain Reynolds called them into his office. Yes, they would be on the task force. Their sole purpose was to catch the Night Prowler, and they'd better do it as quickly as they could.

"A couple more nights like this, and L.A.'s gonna blow."

People were already scared. More cops than usual were on the streets, but people didn't feel safe. Lincoln couldn't say he blamed them.

"At this point, all we can do is hope he slips up," Reynolds said.

Lincoln hated to agree with him, but had no choice.

By ten 'o'clock, Clyde had finished going through the registry of known felons. July 27, 1979, meant absolutely nothing.

"I don't know," he said, leaning back in his chair, defeated. "Maybe it's the date of his first kill. We could check missing persons' records."

Lincoln sighed. "Maybe..."

"Detective Loud?"

Lincoln and Clyde both looked up. Sargent Liu was standing behind him, his arms behind his back, seeming to have materialized out of nothing. He was dressed in a blue shirt and black pants, his gun-belt hanging heavy on his tiny waist. "I have someone who wants to talk to you."

"Who?"

"Follow me."

Liu led them into a conference room off the main hall. A tall, Hispanic woman with long, dark hair and big brown eyes was seated at the head of the table. She was wearing a tight red dress and a leopard-skin coat. Bracelets hung from her wrists. Judging by the lip-stick, eye shadow, and rouge, she was a working girl.

"Detectives," Liu said, "this is Maria Salazar. She thinks she knows who the Night Prowler is."

The woman looked up at Lincoln and nodded. "At least he said he was."

Lincoln nodded to Liu. "Thanks."

Liu smiled and left the room, softly closing the door behind him.

"Maria, I'm Detective Loud and this is Detective McBride," Lincoln said. Clyde shook her hand first, then sank into the chair on her right. Lincoln was next; when he was done, he sat on her left. "What do you want to tell us?"

The woman sighed, rolled her neck, and seemed to steel herself for the story. "I'm a hooker," she said, to the point. "I have sex with guys for money. Some guys nut and go, and you never see them again. Some guys like you and keep coming back."

Lincoln nodded, slightly taken aback by her candor. "Alright."

"There's this guy who keeps coming back. Real weirdo. Creepy eyes. Weird smile. He likes it kinky."

"How kinky?" Clyde asked.

"He wears a ski mask when we do it," Maria said, looking at him. "Some girls do whatever it takes to make a customer happy, but I draw the line at handcuffs and stuff, but every time this guy comes around, he tries to get me to let him cuff my hands behind my back. And when he gets going, he's real aggressive about it. You know?"

"What's his name?" Lincoln asked.

"He calls himself Bon, but I don't think that's his real name."

"Bon?"

She nodded. "Yeah. Like bon-bon."

Lincoln wrote that down.

"A lot of guys like to get freaky," Clyde said, leaning forward. "What makes you think he's the Night Prowler?"

 _Easy,_ Lincoln thought, recognizing that Clyde was subtly putting her on the defensive. _Don't push her too hard._

"He told me," Maria said.

"He did?"

She nodded. "Last night, he picked me up. Real late. He told me he killed a man and a woman in Culver City."

Lincoln's ears perked. "What does he drive?" he asked.

"A shitty Oldsmobile."

Clyde and Lincoln looked at each other. "Get a sketch artist," Lincoln said.

An hour later, they had a quick black-and-white portrait of Bon: A skinny man with a long face and narrow eyes. "I never got a real good look at him," Maria had said. "He always just picks me up, and it's dark, you know?"

When they were done, Lincoln looked into the cold, flat eyes of the killer, a ball of hatred forming in his stomach. Here, in pencil and ink, was everything that had led him to become a cop. A murderer. A killer. A harmer of innocent people.

"Can do you me a favor, Maria?" Lincoln asked.

"What?"

"Show this to your friends. See if anyone knows anything about him.

She nodded.

"If you hear anything, call us." He handed her his card.

When she was gone, Lincoln said, "I want every working girl in the city to see this."

By two in the morning, several dozen copies had been printed and distributed to officers on the street. Copies were also sent to every newspaper in the city.

For now, it was up to the public.

East Los Angeles is home to a high density of Hispanic immigrants. The shops lining its streets are decrepit yet brightly painted, the houses are small and shabby, and the people are naturally distrustful of outsiders.

As night fell over L.A., the killer slipped into the East L.A. on Whittier Blvd and crept north past the storefronts and tall, towering palms. At 9:00 PM, he parked in the parking lot of a bar and smoked as Krokus sang "Headhunter." A block southwest, tiny houses dotted dirty lots overlooking narrow streets. He figured he'd wait until one or two and then be on his way.

After an hour, as he was listening to a repeat of the press conference on the radio, a man appeared at the open window.

"I'm sorry, homes, but you gotta move," he said.

The killer looked at him. He was short, bald, and wore a mustache-goatee combo. The killer reached into his coat pocket.

"Twenty bucks?" he asked.

The man was unmoved. "Nah. You gotta go. This is a no parking zone."

The killer brought the Woodsman up. The man saw it, his eyes widening. He backed up a step.

The killer fired.

The bullet took him low in the chest, spinning him around and knocking him down.

The killer put the gun away and drove off.

Two hours later, the killer watched from his car as the lights in the windows of the trailers clustered around the dirt horse-shoe drive winked off one-by-one. The trailer he was interested in, an ancient single-wide painted sea foam green, had been dark for an hour and a half.

At 3:10 AM, the killer got out of the car, his murder bag slung over one of his shoulders. At the back door, he pulled out the mask and slid it on. With the screwdriver, he popped the lock and stepped in.

The trailer was dark and redolent of musk, mold, and age. He checked the bedroom at the end of the hall to his right, but it was empty and stacked with boxes. He moved through the kitchen and the living room, the furniture looming darkly from the shadows. At the bedroom door, he paused, listened, heard nothing, and opened it.

A single bed sat in the middle of the room, a nightstand flanking it to the left. A dresser stood against the wall.

The killer went over to the figure. In the half-light of night, he saw her face, old and leathery, her eyes closed and her lips slightly parted. She must have been in her eighties, if not her nineties.

The killer punched her.

She jerked and let out a thin, feeble moan.

His anger rising, the killer snatched her by her faded red hair and yanked her out of bed; she crashed against the nightstand in a flash of legs and arms. On top of her, he punched her again.

She went still.

Before he went on, he swept the house for anything of value, but didn't find anything worth taking.

Back in the bedroom, the woman was awake; amazingly, she'd managed to roll herself onto her stomach; he caught her reaching for the phone.

"Oh, no, we can't have that," he said. He grabbed the phone, yanked it out of the wall, and threw it across the room.

Kneeling, the killer put one hand on the woman's back.

"Do you wanna...live?"

The old woman, trembling, stilled.

"I'll let you live," he said, "but you have to do me a favor."

The old woman didn't speak.

"All you have to do is tell them the Night Prowler was here. Okay?"

The old woman was whimpering now.

Standing, the killer kicked her in the hip, and she screamed.

"Remember. Tell 'em I was here."

Outside, the killer stood in the night, breathing deeply.

Before leaving, he took out his trusty marker and scribbled a message on the back door.


End file.
